persistence he might probably fail, unless he should find that
more than ordinary constancy in the girl. That the Duke could not
eat him, indeed that nobody could eat him as long as he carried
himself as an honest man and a gentleman, was to him an inward
assurance on which he leaned much. And yet he was conscious,
almost with a feeling of shame, that in Italy he had not spoken to
the Duke about his daughter because he was afraid lest the Duke
might eat him. In such an affair he should have been careful from
the first to keep his own hands thoroughly clean. Had it not been
his duty as a gentleman to communicate with the father, if not
before he gained the girl's heart, at any rate as soon as he knew
he had done so? He had left Italy thinking that he would
certainly meet the Duchess and her daughter in London, and that
then he might go to the Duke as though this love of his had arisen
from the sweetness of those meetings in London. But all these
ideas had been dissipated by the great misfortune of the death of
Lady Mary's mother. From all this he was driven to acknowledge to
himself that his silence in Italy had been wrong, that he had been
weak in allowing himself to be guided by the counsel of the
Duchess, and that he had already armed the Duke with one strong
argument against him.

He did not doubt but that Mrs Finn would be opposed to him. Of
course he could not doubt but that all the world would now be
opposed to him,--except the girl herself. He would find no other
friend so generous, so romantic, so unworldly as the Duchess had
been. It was clear to him that Lady Mary had told the story of her
engagement to Mrs Finn, and that Mrs Finn had not as yet told the
Duke. From this he was justified in regarding Mrs Finn as the
girl's friend. The request made was that he should at once do